


comes and goes (in waves)

by halogens



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Build, THEY'RE DORKS, like eye zoom kinda squint, oblivious dorks, reiner/bertoldt if u squint, unadulterated amounts of fluff interrupted by Serious Moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halogens/pseuds/halogens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jean and Marco are emotionally stunted beyond belief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	comes and goes (in waves)

It is strange how even in times like these they are still attaching themselves to others. They are haunted by death and the ever looming ax over their heads, like tiptoeing on sheets of glass. They speak in pairs or groups. It’s always Eren and Armin and Mikasa or Bertoldt and Reiner or Jean and Marco, as if singling somebody out, speaking it aloud would make it a reality.

And it’s this that’s weighing on Jean’s mind when Marco strolls towards him, rambling about a story Connie told in the mess hall or other. He interrupts him and says, “Do you realize we’re always together? It’s always you and me.”

At this, Marco pauses for a moment and then proceeds to blush from his hairline down to beneath the collar of his shirt and it makes the dark freckles dotting his face all the more prominent. He grins and wraps his hand around the nape of his neck familiarly and stutters when he tries to answers.

“I-uh, yeah? Yeah. I mean, we’re around each other a lot, because you’re always helping me in training. And it’s not like there’s many of us, so I talk to you more than the others and you’re one of my closest friends. I see you. A lot. And the window of opportunity closes fast, and I don’t know whether this is going to be the last time I see you, so it has to be worth something. You don’t mind, do you? We can start hanging out with different people if it bothers you,” he finishes lamely and wrings his hands together like a child reprimanded for bad behavior. Suddenly, Jean feels bad for bringing it up at all.

He ignores Marco’s comment about the window of opportunity, because if he starts thinking about it he won’t stop and that kind of mindset is nothing short of tying weights to his ankles and sinking himself in the river. Instead he asks, “I’m one of your closest friends?” and like that the nervous and hesitant expression on Marco’s face is wiped away and he’s six feet of sappy and overeager puppy dog again. Jean hates it.

He grins, wide and open, and starts to ramble again. “Yeah Jean, you’re one of the bravest people I know, because you may be weak, but you push through it to help others. And that makes you one of the strongest people I know. You’re not a coward; you’re a good leader and important to the mission and your friends.”

It’s been forever since anybody has ever said anything like that to him, if not the first time ever, and Jean wants more than anything to scowl and brush it off, but that would be unfair to Marco. However, he also wants to thank the heavens for making Marco Bodt exist.

“Wow, uh, I’ve never heard that before. I’m pretty sure anybody else would just call me an asshole, Marco.” He ends it with a laugh that sounds fake to his own ears and pats Marco on the chest affectionately. But he lets his hand linger and ends up splaying his fingers right above Marco’s heart, like a salute. The resounding beat is comforting. _We are here. We are alive._

Then Jean can’t bear to rest his hand anywhere near Marco’s heart anymore, because he feels like a sinner tainting things that don’t belong to him. Jean can feel the heat radiating off of Marco through the layers of fabric and curls his hand into a fist on Marco’s steady chest, over the emblem, and turns away before the moment becomes awkward.

Marco’s gaze weighs heavy on his back as he begins heading to the dorms, and he can’t bear turning around and making the eye contact he knows he should when he calls back, “I don’t mind, you know.”

And Marco, momentarily distracted by the subsiding warmth of Jean’s touch asks, “Don’t mind what?”

“’Jean and Marco.’ ‘Marco and Jean.’ All that,” he replies, and then more softly, “It makes me feel safe.” _(You make me feel safe.)_

Jean’s disappeared from Marco’s vision, but for the second time, Marco’s blushing and hopeful. And for the rest of that day, Marco feels like he should wind himself up in a blanket or anybody would be able to look right through him and see all the funny things that Jean does to the bundle of nerves in the pit of his stomach.

They do this a lot.

“Hey, are you awake?” Jean’s voice is shaky and he’s drenched in sweat and panting for his best friend at three in the morning but he can’t bring himself to care because he just watched Marco die, and there are some nightmares that aren’t so easily reconciled.

“Yeah,” Marco answers, drowsy with sleep. “What’s up?” and Jean is so impossibly relieved and so very grateful to hear Marco’s voice. But it’s still not enough and he silently lifts himself up on one hand to make sure that Marco is still there, all of him. He blows out a wavering breath and then slumps back down on the bed. _Okay._

When Jean responds with, “Um, nothing. I’m fine,” Marco must hear the almost imperceptible crack in his voice, because he rolls towards his cot and braces a hand on either side of his head to loom over him. He’s scrunched his eyebrows together in worry and uses one hand to push the tousled hair back from Jean’s forehead. They make eye contact and Jean can feel Marco scrutinizing him, his gaze stretching from the top of Jean’s head to his bare feet that wormed their way out of the blanket in the throes of the nightmare. He’s looking for signs of trouble or injury or reason for Jean to be waking him up at this ungodly hour and Jean wants to blush. Marco’s face is inches from his and he thinks, _friends don’t do this._

“You don’t sound okay.”

Jean could take this chance to do one of two things, reassure Marco that everything was okay and let them (Marco only, really) get back to sleep or —

“You died, Marco,” and his voice must really give him away now, because the person in question makes a choking noise above him and Jean doesn’t want to look him in the eye anymore or risk crying, so he buries his face in his arms and the thin regulation sheet they’re given and mumbles into his sleeves. “You died and you were alone.” There’s silence and for a bit, Jean hopes that there’s a merciful god and Marco has somehow miraculously fallen asleep hovering right over him.

The silence is broken when Marco says, “Hey,” like he’s talking to a startled and injured animal and gently pulls Jean’s arm from his face with one hand and prods him in the cheek lightly. “I’m right here. Not dead. In one whole piece.” Then he says, “You won’t be alone,” responding to things that Jean left unsaid. “I won’t be either.”

Marco drops down on one elbow and Jean thinks that Marco is going to kiss him, but that would be _ridiculous_. Nonetheless, that doesn’t change the fact that Jean can feel Marco’s breath on his cheek and for a split second feels Marco’s bangs graze along his forehead.

But all Marco does is scoot his cot until the few inches separating him and Jean are closed, and what kind of unlucky bastard is Jean, to have these kinds of friends.

Marco takes his blanket and fans it out before draping it over the both of them and mumbling, “Don’t hog,” before curling a hand protectively around Jean’s waist and resting the other on his hip. Everywhere they’re touching feels on fire and Jean sucks in a lungful of air too quickly and he hopes he doesn’t fall out of the bed, because this is _really_ comfortable.

For the first time that night, he can feel Marco hesitate and stiffen and start to pull back from him all at once. His voice is halting while he’s asking whether this is okay or if he was too forward before Jean cuts him off and says yeah, yeah this is okay. Beyond okay, but he doesn’t mention that part.

And then it’s like he can sense Marco breaking out into a smile behind him, because Jean blushes so hot all the way down, he thinks Marco must feel it at every point of contact but he’s just sparing Jean’s dignity by not mentioning it. Never before has he been so thankful for the cover of night.

Jean winds his fingers of one hand into those of the one resting on his hip and squeezes and feels heartened when Marco tightens his grip. He can feel Marco’s breath ruffling the hairs on the nape of his neck and wonders about how strange things are between them. How the largest things go without reaction while the smallest actions make him want to sink into the ground. He wonders whether Marco would notice if he pressed back into him a little bit more.

Then he realizes that everything about this situation is so completely, totally, unbelievably cheesy. The handholding and the spooning (the horror), and the _feeeeeeelings._ Jean hopes Marco doesn’t wake up wrapped around a puddle of two-toned goo because Jean is about 99 percent sure he’s about to melt or something.

Jean, only a little bit panicked, says “Marco? What are we — ”

But Marco knocks his forehead into the back of Jean’s head and grouses, “Go to sleep, Jean,” like they do this every other day.

Jean sighs. “Yeah okay,” and smiles into his pillow.

Some days are better than others.

Jean isn’t known for his emotional acuity, but when he’s around Marco, he feels like a better person. However, feelings don’t become actions and sometimes he snaps. He doesn’t necessarily want into the military police; he just doesn’t want to die.

Marco understands that, but he isn’t a person that waits until the storm is over. He treks on through the snow and the rain and the lightning and thunder, because he knows if he walks long enough he’ll see the sun on the other side. Jean wishes he didn’t, because around Marco, he also feels like a coward.

That morning, Jean wakes up and tears himself from Marco’s arms, because that’s a thing they do now, and heads to the showers. He sits under the frigid spray of the shower until he’s shivering and much more likely to be susceptible to catching a cold before putting on the same clothes that he came in with and crawling back into bed with Marco.

Marco pretends to jolt awake from the press of Jean’s cold feet against his calves, but Jean knows his sleeping patterns now and also knows that Marco probably hasn’t gotten any sleep since Jean left. He feels guilty.

Marco watches him steadily, as he readjusts himself to the warmth before saying anything. They still have a couple hours left of sleep and Jean wants to take advantage of them.

“You’re freezing, Jean,” he says and accompanies his words by rubbing up and down Jean’s biceps with his hands. Jean doesn’t say anything and presses his face into Marco’s collarbone and can feel Marco’s jawline pressing into the crown of his head.

They’re quiet for a long time, but Jean can tell Marco is waiting for him to say something but he isn’t sure how to start, so he just whispers, “I don’t want to die,” into Marco’s skin. And then he starts crying and it isn’t muffled or quiet, it’s boisterous and wakes up half the squad, but he doesn’t know how to stop.

Marco curls his fingers into the Jean’s hair and starts shushing him quietly but he only gets louder and he’s wailing now, and the groans of the other trainees are silenced when they hear him sob that he wants to go outside the walls without having to worry about dying on the way there.

Marco’s skin is clammy with Jean’s tears and the fabric near his neck is soaked but he still doesn’t say anything and just pulls Jean’s body closer to his. Eventually, he falls asleep with shuddering breaths.

When they get up for training, everybody looks fatigued, but they don’t bring it up with him because they understand, and the only signs that anything changed are the additional supportive and concerned  glances Marco sends his way, and when they’re in the mess hall and Marco keeps a hand on his waist the entire time they’re there without fail.

Jean would be worried about other people talking, but he’s too tired, and it doesn’t look like anybody is saying anything. They all know what the stress is like; they don’t fault each other for it. One of the only changes in the daily routine is when Bertoldt, who rarely says much at all, whispers something into Marco’s ear that has him shaking his head and blushing. The hand around Jean’s waist doesn’t falter.

Life goes on.

They are at training, and Jean’s on cloud nine. He feels smoother than usual, more aerodynamic and he’s bouncing through the air. He laughs when he slices through the neck of a faux titan on the first try and he turns around to shout at Marco, who seems to be able to sense his good mood 30 yards away.

Then one of the instructors slices his lines, and he knows exactly what this means. But he isn’t prepared, too giddy with happiness and staring at Marco and he falls. He slams into the trunk of a tree and collides with branches on the way down and can hear himself yelling and struggling with his lines. Marco cries his name, and it’s the last thing he hears before he blacks out.

When Jean wakes up, everything feels raw and sharp. He has a wrist in a brace and a cast around one leg, while bandages are wrapped around the rest. He’s lucky; he can tell. Marco is curled next to his bedside, arms folded under his head and he has one hand tangled with Jean’s uninjured one.

He’s sure that they never do this. Trainees have a routine — eat, sleep, work, repeat. There is no time for grieving or concern that’s calculated into the schedule and Jean knows that Marco will have to run laps for this later. Somehow, Marco always finds a way to buffer his hostile attitude while at the same time making him feel guilty as hell. Jean says his name.

Marco jerks awake with red-rimmed eyes, and they light up when he sees who called him. He jumps up from the chair too fast and knocks it over in his excitement. _He’s been crying over me,_ Jean thinks.

“Jean,” Marco breathes out, like he’s the second coming of Jesus. Marco’s fingers tighten around his. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” he laughs and then asks, “Why are you here?” Marco ducks his head and mumbles something inaudible. Then, he says louder:

“I fainted. After they got you to medical I fainted,” and then he gestures to a bed with rumbled sheets across the aisle from Jean’s with a flustered look on his face. Jean’s mouth gapes open like a fish and then he laughs, even though it makes his body hurt all over.

Marco stammers that he just wasn’t really expecting it and it was like a heart attack seeing Jean drop out of the air, but Jean cuffs him on the back of the head and then pulls him into a one-armed hug.

“Doofus,” he laughs again and Marco chuckles too before he quiets down and says more seriously, “I’m glad you’re okay.

At a loss for words, Jean says, “Yeah,” and hugs his arms around Marco’s neck more tightly.

It keeps happening.

They lose somebody that Jean didn’t know, but Marco was apparently friends with, and Marco doesn’t talk for the rest of the day. And while they’re in bed, Jean sits up and leans his back against the wall and Marco presses his forehead to Jean’s chest and listens to his heartbeat.

Jean and Marco only get one cup in the cafeteria between them, because they sit close enough that they end up confusing them anyway. And they always nag each to go get refills, because one of them is hanging onto every word in a conversation with another trainee, usually Marco, or because one of them is embroiled in an argument with Eren, usually Jean.

Jean ends up with split knuckles the first time anyone dares to say something to Marco about the two of them, and he has to run laps until he can’t anymore. And then Marco lugs him out of the dirt and into the shower, warns him before he turns the biting cold water on, _and_ _then_ drags him out of the restrooms and into the dorms. Jean leans on him as Marco starts undressing him and preparing him for bed; Marco is the only thing keeping him standing.

He’s hyperaware of how people talk to him now. When he shows up at training without Marco glued to his side, Sasha asks, “What happened to Freckle Face?” like he’s the unofficial warden of all things Marco Bodt and vice versa.

He feels like he and Marco are now hyphenated, bound to one another by a thin, invisible rope. In another world, they would wear matching sweaters or talk in sync or have business cards with Kirschtein and Bodt printed on them, side by side. It’s dangerous, thinking about what could or couldn’t be and Jean likes the bit of risk.

 

One morning, he and Marco are bickering about tactics at the table when Eren shouts from across the room, “Are you serious? I can hear you twenty feet away. You’re arguing like an old married couple.” Twenty heads swivel to gawk at them and Jean feels aggressively defensive when Marco blushes rosy red. Jean goes for the very masculine and Not At All Emotional response of slapping a hand on Marco’s back, and protesting with, “Hey, it’s not like that, okay, Jaeger? Y’know, I would shove your head up your ass if it wasn’t so far up it already,” and at that everybody laughs, because it’s the usual routine between the two of them.

Then Jean says more quietly to Marco, “Just some manly talk about getting the drop on those blundering titans, right Marco?” and for the first time since Eren said anything, he glances at Marco, only to find that he’s still bright pink and staring into his bowl of soup, like he’s searching for the answers to the universe’s questions. And also vehemently avoiding Jean’s gaze.

Jean doesn’t know what to say, because normally, these quips are nothing more than something Marco brushes off.

“…Marco?”

Marco still doesn’t look at him and gets up without warning and winces when he bangs his knee into the underside of the table. The movement rattles everybody’s bowls down the table, and they’re all focusing on the two of them again. He steps away and his voice is shaky when he says, “I have to go,” and practically runs out of the room.

 _What the hell?_ He’s sullen when he goes back to sipping at the bland soup, and he’s gotten four spoonfuls into his mouth before he realizes that everybody’s still looking at him.

“What do you want?” he snaps and he hears murmurs of, “Somebody’s got his panties in a twist,” scattered around the room. Bertoldt raises an eyebrow at him.

“Ah fuck,” he says and drops the spoon. It clatters inside the bowl and soup sloshes over the sides and into the wood grain of the table. He abandons the façade of eating to chase after the freckled boy and is only halfway surprised when he hears Connie wolf-whistle and shout, “Go get your man!” as he’s leaving.

He finds Marco at the edge of the training grounds, plucking dandelions out of the ground and laying them neatly side by side. Marco must have heard his footsteps, because he’s looked up before Jean arrives and squints against the sunlight shining down on him. He looks like a woodland pixie.

“Hey,” Jean starts, “you left without saying anything. You okay?” and plops down next to him.

And Marco still won’t look him in the eyes, which is frustrating beyond belief, and Marco usually doesn’t do this except when he thinks Jean is being too much of an antagonistic asshole, but this is _different._

“Yeah,” he pauses and then, “No. I don’t think I am.”

“Why—” is as far as Jean gets before Marco stops him to ask, “Hey Jean, you like Mikasa, right?”

And it’s gut reaction to say yes, and he feels like a giant kicking over an anthill, because Marco’s face falls minutely so he finishes with, “I like you, too. I like all our friends.” He adds begrudgingly, “Even Eren,” which makes Marco laugh so that makes it not so bad. Jean punches him in the arm lightly and warns, “Don’t you dare tell him.”

Marco hums happily but doesn’t say anything for a long time but wraps his fingers around Jean’s wrist out of nowhere. Jean thinks he’s going to pass out.

“I-I like you too, Jean,” Marco says, bending Jean’s fingers this way and that, like they’re alien.

“Nice to know the sentiment is returned, Marco,” he tries to say coolly, but ends up sounding like he’s bad fibber. Marco drops his hand hastily.

“I don’t think you understand what I mean,” he utters and peers around at the landscape nonchalantly, but it mostly feels like he’s looking for an escape. Jean is stunned into silence. Marco starts to get up and brush himself off, bemoaning about how he’s sorry if things are awkward now and he should get going and _I didn’t mean to ruin things_ like Jean hasn’t been waiting for this for months.

He manages to catch him by the lapel and drags him down until he’s flush against Jean’s body.

“Jean?” Marco squeaks.

“Shut up, Marco,” he says in retaliation. And then he kisses him. He brushes his thumbs over the smattering of freckles on Marco’s cheekbones and runs his tongue on the edge of Marco’s lip. Jean thinks he hears Marco pull out a clump of grass and dirt beside him.

“This isn’t fair,” Marco murmurs against Jean’s lips. _Really, Marco? Right now?_ “I wanted to kiss you first.”

Jean pulls away to cover his eyes with his arm theatrically and mock gasps, “Mr. Bodt, were you planning to,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “ _put the moves on me?_ ”

Marco mumbles something incoherent and nuzzles his face into the warm space between Jean’s neck and shoulder and the position is awkward for the both of them, but mostly Marco, because he’s almost a head taller than Jean, and _the lengths this boy will go to._ But it must also mean that Marco is willing to go to these lengths to say whatever it is he’s saying, but he’s also trying to make sure that Jean doesn’t hear. So that must mean that this must be something utterly embarrassing and Cannot Be Spoken.

“Well,” Jean says, a lilt to his voice, “I’m sorry to tell you that I am the King of Smooching, and I _will not_ be dethroned by someone the likes of you.” Marco doesn’t move.

In the past, Jean Kirschtein has given up on many things, like balancing on the little swing behind his neighbor’s house and juggling, however, Marco won’t be one of those things that Jean abandons, so he nudges his palm against the cheek of the other boy and says, “Look at me,” softly.

He figures he must be doing something right, because Marco lifts his head from Jean’s shoulder with watery eyes and smiles lightly. His mouth is kiss-swollen and his hair is disheveled and Jean thinks, _I did that._

“Mr. Kirschtein, I don’t know when I was going to ‘put any moves on you.’ If ever,” and then he makes a squawk-like noise and hides his face again.

“Wha— how long were you going to wait if I hadn’t done it?”

“Forever?” Marco answers meekly. Jean groans emphatically and spreads his limbs eagle. “You goof.” Marco looks up at him and grins.

And then more seriously, Marco asks, “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, I’m comfortable. You don’t seem so, though. I don’t think legs are supposed to bend that way.” Marco goes quiet for a moment and then says, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh. What’dya mean then?

Marco is quiet again and then he says with a voice that Jean’s never heard from him, small and unsure, “Is this okay? You and me?”

Jean kisses him on the nose. “Yeah. Me and you, you and me. Whatever you want, it’s okay.”

Marco pokes him in the ribs. “What?” he asks, and pulls the syllables out so it sounds more like a whine.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

_This one's for the lonely, the ones that seek and find_  
 _Only to be let down time after time_  
 _This one's for the torn down, the experts at the fall_  
 _Come on friends get up now, you're not alone at all_

**Author's Note:**

> i have no excuse for this


End file.
